


All Things Being Equal

by blythechild



Category: V for Vendetta (2005)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Comfort, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-14
Updated: 2012-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 04:47:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blythechild/pseuds/blythechild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 years after V's death, Evey meets a stranger who gently reminds of her of what she's lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Things Being Equal

**Author's Note:**

> This was the last fic that I wrote for the V fandom - sort of a farewell after several great years. I liked the idea of verbose characters communicating silently...
> 
> This is a work of fanfiction and as such I do not claim ownership over any characters herein. It was created as a personal entertainment.

She sat down on the edge of the park bench, unwrapped her sandwich and watched the children play on the jungle gym. The morning was cool and crystalline – so unexpected for London in November – and she breathed in deeply pretending that she only scented the crispness of impending winter instead of the myriad of industrial toxins endemic to modern life. 

She hated this damned holiday. Her workplace was closed for the day, as all others were, so she couldn’t even pretend that it was just another Thursday. Tonight there would be fireworks to commemorate it. This playground would fill up, as would most other public spaces with a view of the former Parliament buildings, with these children and their parents and they would oooh and ahhh to the colours and sounds and music. They would all wave flags and some would sport their masks in celebration of the gift of freedom offered to them 5 years ago. She would hide inside her apartment and try to drown out the sound of explosions with an old movie turned up as far as it would go. Everyone would be out celebrating so no one would complain. But despite her efforts she would still feel the reverberations through the ancient foundations of her building and her body would tense and shake after every volley. Just like those vets from the World Wars who got quivery and milk-faced when a car backfired in the street: shell shocked. Except she was shell shocked in a way that she could never explain to anyone. 

“Is the sandwich that bad?”

She snapped back into the present and realized that she had been staring at her sandwich, frozen halfway to from her mouth, for god knows how long. She turned towards the speaker and recognized a fellow recluse who favored this park view. Though she had seen him here many times over the years she had never once spoken to him. She couldn’t remember if she had heard him speak before.

“Erm, pardon?” Her brain hiccupped as she noticed scars along the side of his face and crisscrossing his hands for the first time. _Shit. Stop staring._

“Your lunch,” he smiled tolerantly as she tried to school her features “You’ve been staring at it as if the secrets of the universe were baked into the crust. Either that, or cockroach parts.”

She stopped trying to avert her gaze and instead fixed him with a cool stare as she rewrapped her sandwich. “Well, I’m not eating it now either way, so thanks for saving me from that.”

He laughed softly. “I beg your pardon. I’m not terribly good at casual conversation. Sometimes what I think is humorous others find offensive or bizarre. I didn’t mean to turn you off your lunch. I was just intrigued by your expression – that’s all.”

 _Nice one. You’ve made a cripple feel bad for inquiring after your own pathetically sad life. You have the social skills of a cactus._ She contemplated her shoes for a while as she thought about some advice that a grief counselor had once offered her: you use fewer muscles to smile than you do to frown. Just fake it – it costs less. She could _try_ faking it with this random park person; it’s not as if he could tell the difference…

“I’m sorry.” She said quietly. “I guess that I’m not so good at casual conversations either.” _Now paste that smile on. Wider… wiiiider… that’s good._

“There is no need to apologize.” He was looking at the children on the jungle gym with a bemused expression, not paying attention to her fake smile at all. “I understand if you don’t wish to talk. I often don’t when I come here.”

“I know,” _Shit. That was stalker-y._ “I mean, I feel that way too, and understand where you are coming from. Still, that’s no excuse for rudeness…”

“I am used to that reaction. The scars frighten people, and the quickest way to get away is to strike out at what scares you and scare them right back.” In a smooth gesture he turned towards her stretching his arm along the back of the park bench and crossing his legs as if relaxing with a friend. “But you weren’t rude because of the scars, you were rude because of what I said, and I find _that_ interesting.”

She noticed that he had managed to close the considerable physical space between them on the bench with a glance. His stare was not hostile or predatory but keen and intimate. He just stared. There was no expectation or interrogation in it. Something tingled along the back of her neck like a whisper of memory. _Stop it. Just because he has scars… don’t turn it into a fetish, sweety._

She stared back. Turnabout was fair play, and he didn’t seem to mind. His eyes seemed to know things about her. She knew that she should have found this alarming but instead she was just relieved. There would be no need to pretend with this stranger from the park, and wasn’t that the problem with breaking in new people? All of the pretending required until you decided if they were worth the effort or not. _Are we considering Park Stranger for an association beyond this staring competition?_

“Have we met before?” she asked finally.

“We must have” was all he said.

A cool breeze blew dead leaves across their feet as they continued to stare at one another. His face didn’t move at all and yet she thought that she read a series of inexplicable thoughts from it: uncertainty, warmth, relief, pride… She wondered what he was reading in her face right now. All she could think was that _this_ \- the connection, the scars, the man sitting across from her – just wasn’t possible. Her mind had grasped at disparate facts and conjured up the impossible. That’s all.

_But what if it wasn’t impossible?_

_Wow, that’s really not helping matters at all… You are one remarkably lonely individual._

_So what could it hurt to pretend a little? Just to ease the solitude for a while?_

_Don’t be naïve. It could hurt awfully._

She was unsure how long the silence had stretched out. It didn’t feel uncomfortable but she was becoming aware that he was waiting for her. She shoved her internal debate aside and moved forward with the only thing that consistently occupied her mind.

“I had a friend…” she started.

“Yes?”

“You remind me of him.”

“I see.”

“He died. 5 years ago tonight.” She felt her throat beginning to close up.

“Oh.”

_Oh? OH?_

_Quiet!_

“I…” she looked away from him for the first time. Some reactions she didn’t wish to share. “I miss him all the time. It never seems to go away.”

There was a long pause as she watched a dried leaf blow its way across the playground.

“I’m sorry.” The weight that he gave the apology snapped her head back towards him.  
He was standing, adjusting the collar of his coat against the breeze that was becoming more insistent. He turned away and put on leather gloves that materialized from his pockets.

_Time’s up. So much for my attempt to fake it, I guess._

“No, _I’m_ sorry.” She said quickly. “A stranger’s sorrows aren’t what you were searching for this afternoon, I’m sure. It was… unseemly. I guess that my social retardation is worse than I thought.”

She tried to laugh it off casually and busied herself with packing up her belongings, but she couldn’t avoid the sudden stab in her chest.

_See? It hurts, doesn’t it?_

_Shut up._

He ignored her apology, and after adjusting the fit of his gloves, walked over to her and offered the crook of his arm. “It won’t be long before the crowds arrive. Let me walk you home.”

She didn’t think about it, just rose from the bench and fitted herself into his side. She hoped that her face didn’t look as mystified as she felt. This whole afternoon had been deeply unsettling. 

They walked for several blocks without speaking. She guided him through the bustling streets with a quick flick of her hand or leaning into him to alter his course accordingly. At a glance, they might have appeared to be a couple familiar enough to be comfortable in one another’s silence. It felt that way to her as well, as she held the stranger’s arm firmly. He walked confidently, head up and alert, as if this had always been his rightful place. When he spoke again, it sounded like a sudden shout on a mountainside even though he only murmured.

“Sorrow should be balanced with pride, not shame. It indicates care and meaning, and the persistence of memory. It is hard to live with, to be sure, so perhaps it is the vulnerability that people shy away from, not the sorrow itself.”

She wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or just out loud. She didn’t know how to respond in either case.

“Tell me, bearing in mind the sadness that you feel at his loss, do you regret knowing your friend?”

“No,” she said instantly “Never.”

“And, all things being equal, would you do it again?”

“Yes.”

“And, even though he is gone, is he not still your friend?”

“Yes, he is. Always.” She made a study of a Victorian garden they were passing to avoid looking at him as she said it.

He stopped and did not move until she looked up at him. His expression was all warm reassurance such that he might have said the earth was flat and she wouldn’t have questioned it. “In that case, your sorrow is beautiful; a perfect elegy for your friend, and something that you should feel no need to hide. Let go of your shame and the burden will lighten, I promise you.”

She couldn’t look away now and couldn’t stop the tears from springing to her eyes. Suddenly, it didn’t matter if he saw them, but a panic rose in her nonetheless. That tingle was on the back of her neck again.

_Stop this. You are being foolish._

_No, I’m not. Can’t you see?_

_I don’t see anything but your desperation._

“But if I don’t feel the weight of this sadness…” she choked “What if I start to forget him?”

The warmth drained from his face and was replaced by something more incendiary. It happened so quickly that she took a step back remembering that she had only just met this man. His hands flashed to her face before she could think to move, and held her in place. She felt a leather-wrapped thumb smooth a tear from her cheekbone. It reminded her of the dried leaves in the playground. She held her breath as he leaned in closer, still unsure of what his dark expression meant for her. 

“You could not forget him, Evey.” He bent lower so that his lips brushed the hair by her ear. “And I know that you would not.”

He stepped back quickly and she saw that he had recovered most of his composure though it had not quite reached his eyes. He stared at her for a moment and then strode into the street being swallowed immediately by the growing holiday crowds. 

_Jesus!_

She tried to catch her breath and realized two things had happened almost without her knowledge: he had stopped them directly in front of the entrance to her flat even though she had said nothing, and he had called her by her name which she had never given him. Evey spun around and tried to find his figure in the throng but it was of little use. The moment was gone. Or maybe her mind had snapped back to reality. She couldn’t tell what she thought about any of it. The only thing she was sure of was that she had better get off the street just in case she started hallucinating dead men in public again.

_Deeply unsettling indeed._

\---------------------------------------------------------

It felt like the explosions had been going on forever. She had the TV up as far as it would go but it did little to block out the sounds of gunpowder. Was it possible they were louder this year? She shook like she was sick and each sonic shock rattled her down to her bones. She couldn’t sit still and yet pacing was worse. If she walked around the flat she caught glimpses of the lights and flashes, which made the booming more immediate. 

_His body on the train. The train packed with explosives. The sight of Parliament in flames. His blood, so much blood…_

How much longer would the fireworks last? Hasn’t it been hours already? She sat on the couch again only to leap to her feet at the next boom outside. She elected to start pacing with her head down until she started bumping into furniture. Damned holiday!

_Who are you kidding? Even if it ended this instant, you’d still be pacing and trying to make sense of him, wouldn’t you? Face it: there’s no sleep for you tonight._

She was contemplating going to bed and wrapping a blanket around her head when she thought she heard knocking. It was hard to tell, so she waited, and just as she was going to dismiss it, she heard it again, louder.

 _Maybe someone else decided to stay home and doesn’t share your love of tinnitus…_

But that’s not what she was hoping for.

When she opened the door and was caught again by his stare, she moved aside and let him in without a word. She closed the door and turned to find him as close to her as he could get without actually touching her. The hallway was dark but she knew that he was watching her intently, waiting for her. She hesitated. When she felt the moment beginning to slip away she took a deep breath and dove in. His lips were rough and his body shook with every explosion just as hers did and, somehow, this all seemed to be absolutely right. After a few minutes of fumbling in the dark, their lips parted and she was bubbling over with questions. He laid a scarred finger across her lips to quiet her.

“Does it matter?” he asked softly.

_Yes! Of course it does!  
Doesn’t it?_

She shook her head slowly, no. She didn’t care about the reasons or the impossibilities or even words. She just wanted warmth and comfort, but most of all she wanted his presence and she would buy it with silence if that was the price he demanded. So, she took his hand and led him into her bedroom where they heard nothing but each other for the rest of the evening. 

\-------------------------------------------

She woke in the morning and he was gone. There was barely any sign that he had ever been there, except for the messages left on her body. A small, soft bruise starting to form along her left collarbone, a lingering taste of salt in her mouth, the slow ache of muscles brought to life after a long rest. She sunk into each sensation and plumbed it completely before rising to wash it all away.

_So, what now?_

_I don’t know._

_What do you want to happen?_

_I don’t know._

She took her lunch to the park again but ended up eating alone. Work dragged on endlessly until she could finally break free to rush home for… what? She waited until 1a.m. before she resigned herself to lying down in the sheets that she hadn’t had the heart to change yet. 

The next day she told herself to get a grip on her life. She took the paper to the park so that she could read during her lunch but abandoned the notion when she saw a figure seated on her bench. _Their_ bench. She sat on the opposite end and stared at him.

“What’s on the menu today? I hope that it’s cockroach free…” he said, his gaze hinting at nothing beyond friendly conversation.

“Prosciutto and tomato on sourdough. Would you like half?” Her hand shook as she offered him the sandwich.

He hesitated for a second before a smile brightened his face. “Oh, thank you. I _am_ a little peckish today.”

When she went back to her own half, her hands were as solid as stones and she smiled contentedly as he commented that the sky looked like snow was coming.

She left her front door unlocked that night and, this time, he didn’t bother to knock first.

It went on in that fashion for months. He didn’t show up every night but she was never again in doubt that he _would_. After that first night, they never spoke within the confines of her flat. They developed a system of complex communication based on touch, body language, facial expression… anything but words. The silence was elegant and transparent, and it seemed as though they were speaking _to_ each other for the first time. Some nights they curled up together and watched movies. Some nights they attended to their own work but sought to do it in each other’s company. Many nights were spent attempting to create one body from two.

In daylight, they met often at the park for lunch, and during those interludes it was if their nighttime selves were unknown to them. They talked about their jobs, the government, the economic crisis without once referring to their unusual nocturnal arrangement. Evey would watch him smile and think it was kind rather than focusing on the lips that had traced every inch of her. He would walk her back to work and she never once thought of demanding to know where he went when he wasn’t with her. Slowly, they came to fill in the missing parts of their knowledge of one another. 

But no one can live as two different selves indefinitely, so when he arrived one evening in early spring and she presented him with a blood test result, their two seemingly separate lives collapsed into a single frame. He kissed her gently, grabbed her coat and led her from the flat. 

Their ceremony was the last one performed before the registrar closed for the evening, but the justice of the peace didn’t seem put out by the late hour. He also thought that the bride’s tears were completely natural, never once imagining that the couples’ vows were in fact the first declarations of love that they had ever uttered to one another. 

“Congratulations, you two.” The justice of the peace said.

“Thank you.” He said for both of them, his whole body nearly beaming at the statement. He turned to her, “And thank you.”

“What for?” she whispered, still not prepared for conversation.

“For waiting. For accepting everything as it came. For the silence.”

“I guess that part’s over now, isn’t it?” She was a little scared of how things might change once there were words to hide behind.

“It would be difficult to raise a child in silence, don’t you think?” He smiled and laid a hand on her.

“I guess.” She found his hand and gave it a squeeze. “And just imagine the complicated hand signals we’d have to invent in order to discuss baby names?”

He laughed and then drew her close resting his forehead against hers. They swayed together as he rubbed a spot on her lower back. It felt like a mutual goodbye to one phase of their life as they both became comfortable with the new one just beginning.

“Still,” she whispered, “It was nice, wasn’t it? Soothing…”

“All of those things that you couldn’t ask before,” he sighed after a moment “I guess you can ask them now.”

She took a deep breath and dove in. “Does it matter?”  
 _Not anymore. Not to me._

The look of shock that melted into gratefulness on his face was all the answer she needed. He shook his head slowly, no. “No, it doesn’t. Nothing matters but what comes next and I haven’t a clue what that will be.”

“Me neither.” She kissed him and led him out of the registrar’s office towards the street. “Wonderful feeling, isn’t it?”


End file.
